


Golden Boy

by novoentrudo, restlessjude



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Consent Issues, D/s relationship, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, PTSD, Rough Sex, Verbal Abuse, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:24:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoentrudo/pseuds/novoentrudo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessjude/pseuds/restlessjude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after S01E15 — Oswald confronts Jim following the detective's rejection of his invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is most likely a much darker interpretation of Jim's character than a lot of fanfiction, and as such, may contradict with how a lot of people read his character; all I can say is that we're both into the more complex, unhealthy end of these sorts of dynamics, so this seemed a more interesting angle for us to work from. Otherwise, we did our best to make this as canon-compliant as possible.
> 
> Warnings for dubious consent (or at the very least, a lack of negotiation), rough sex, and a general absence of anything sweet and sentimental.

_So, this is where you live now_ , Oswald thinks as he makes his way to the functional, but run-down apartment building that Jim is renting during his break with Barbara. It must be better than sleeping in the GCPD locker room, at least.

It's not the worst neighborhood — no worse than the area in which his mother lives, albeit home to a different demographic. Instead of immigrant-run groceries and restaurants, the street is punctuated by a flower shop, two bars, a diner. The windows bear a few cracks, but the graffiti is minimal, the sound of shouting and car honks in the distance only intermittent. Still, it's a far cry from the neighborhood that Jim had lived in back when Barbara was still a part of his life. Oswald chides himself — he shouldn't feel so satisfied that she's now out of the picture (really, he shouldn't know at all, should he?), but he can't deny that it does fill him with some small amount of gratification.

As he opens the door to the building, Oswald is reminded of Leslie; and she seems pleasant enough. Better-dressed, and quicker on the uptake than Barbara had been. Of course, his observations of her are limited to brief sidewalk interactions outside the GCPD headquarters, as monitored from the coffee shop just across the street. If Jim had noticed him, Oswald could have chalked it up to just another coincidence — but he hadn't been seen. He wonders if it's wishful thinking on his part to infer that Jim seems to hold Leslie at a distance. After all, there's only so much he can really see from where he stands, especially when he's already witness to far more than he should hold knowledge of.

Still, the feeling that fills his chest now is hardly one of vindication. The night had been marred by indignities. The opening of his club should have been a grand event — but the turnout had been meager, and his interaction with Maroni had put a tightness in his stomach that still hadn't unclenched. Oswald had been overconfident, perhaps, as was wont to happen after outwitting death so many times, but soon enough he'll have to rethink his plans, redouble his efforts, prepare himself for any further setbacks. That, however, can wait for another time. He prefers to work on the business end of things when he's in a clear mind.

Despite all of that, though, it's not the events at the club that has him upset — humiliating as it may have been, he's never been the sort to let that sort of thing keep him down for long. Maroni is a dangerous man, but a calculable one. The incident with the gun in the cabin had been the first curveball that Oswald had been thrown, but with everything out on the table, he doesn't predict another. Aside from intermittent lapses into subtlety, to Oswald, Maroni is all bluster, and his motivations have always made his actions predictable. Like a bull charging after a waving red flag, all Oswald will need to do is step aside at the proper time and let the mob boss bring the whole thing crashing down, himself.

Instead, Oswald thinks about the invitation that he'd hand-delivered earlier that day.

Oswald has never thought of himself as needing friends. He'd tried to make a few, of course, when he was younger — but it hadn't taken him long to grasp the workings of the schoolyard's pecking order and recognize that other kids made themselves a target of his numerous bullies simply by proximity.

"Oh, Oswald, Oswald, you don't need them. They are all such simpletons and brutes," his mother had reassured him, her fingers stroking his hair, her perfume heavy in his nostrils and clinging to him even after he pulled away from her and retreated to the safety of his bedroom.

And that had been the last he'd really thought about it. He'd had colleagues over the years, associates, but no friends — and he liked it that way. No one to worry about getting close to, and more importantly, no one to worry about getting too close to him. The distance was comforting. Planned and calculated, like everything else he put his mind to.

Now, however, Oswald thinks of Jim, and in doing so he feels the slight and involuntary tug of a frown on his lips. Someone like Falcone, of course, would have called him a fool for getting his hopes up, and perhaps he had been overly optimistic with all of this. Still, Oswald can't help but feel that all the same, that it's not supposed to _sting_ in the way that it does now — it's not supposed to be something he takes personally, not in this line of work.

It's with some resignation that he admits that Jim is the first person that he's wanted to know beyond a mere business association. Perhaps "friends" really would be the proper word — he's called Jim "friend" during their meetings, of course, but he called many people "friend" when he needed to ingratiate himself. With Jim, however, there had been some kind of sincerity to it. Of course he hadn't expected some sudden reciprocation of his more well-guarded wishes, but all the same, he'd done everything right to lend some truth to that designation — hadn't he?

The hallways in the apartment building are a flat grey color, faded wallpaper peeling in a few spots, only the faded hints of some kind of floral pattern remaining beneath a layer of dust. Oswald wonders how long Jim is staying here. The fact that he'd pick someplace so dingy leads him to believe that this is just a temporary dwelling. Barbara's apartment, meanwhile, remains unoccupied. Not that he'd been keeping tabs on any of this — well, not _too_ closely, really.

Oswald looks at the row of square mailboxes by the door. Jim's apartment is on the top floor — five stories up. Far less impressive than the high-rise loft that he'd shared with Barbara, but more stairs than his leg wants to handle. He breathes a slight sigh of relief when he notices the elevator at the far end of the hall.

The heat here does not warm the place, but merely staves off the chill from outside, and the ceiling vents let out a flat whirring sound.

The temperature doesn't bother the dark-haired man, however. After all, Oswald has always been a cold person, both inside and out — cold eyes, cold hands, cold heart (if a bit of a hot temper, he thinks with a half-smirk). Nonetheless, the feeling that sits in his gut right now isn't some sort of reflective, icy coolness, but something unyielding and unforgiving, like cement in winter, as the lingering agitation from Maroni and the sourness of Jim's rejection coalesce into some notion far harder and heavier than all of that.

Oswald hadn't been… _used_ , had he?

It takes several presses of the elevator button for the door to open — but at least it works. The slow clanking distracts him from his thoughts, although now he wonders if taking the stairs might have actually been faster. After what feels like several minutes, the elevator announces the end of its upward journey with a golden ding.

Oswald counts apartment numbers as he walks down the hall, until he makes his way to the one that must be Jim's door, according to the number on the mailboxes. He knocks on the door — a quick rat-tat-tat kind of gesture, knuckles hard against the wood. No answer at first, and then, the sounds of grumbling from the other side. The door opens with a tired keen.

Jim looks exhausted. His suit's still on, but the tie is off, the top few buttons undone, baring just enough of Jim's chest that Oswald has to make an effort to keep his gaze from seeming too obvious. He also notices the smell of alcohol on Jim, as well — evident even from here, as though he's spilled a bit on his shirt. From the doorway, Oswald notices a half-empty bottle of whiskey by the couch.

"You know, Jim, I was hoping that I wouldn't have to make such a personal visit." Oswald clutches his hands in front of his belt buckle.

Jim groans, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oswald. Please tell me you have a good reason for being here at this hour."

He decides not to acknowledge this remark. "Jim, I'm very hurt that you didn't show up to my party. Tonight was the grand opening of my new club! I even had a table already set for you, but you never showed. I can understand if work kept you away, but-"

"Oswald. You need to stop this. Stop showing up at the station, stop coming to my apartment, just leave me alone. I'm not interested. Christ, how did you even find out I was staying here?"

Oswald falters, briefly at a loss. "B-but Jim, I thought-"

"I don't care what you thought. Just go. Now." Jim turns his back, the conversation clearly over in his mind.

Oswald fumes. No. It won't end like this. He isn't finished here, not yet.

"I thought we were friends." His voice rises in volume as he hobbles after Jim, letting himself into the apartment proper. The decor is sparse, the furniture old, the light just a bit too dim. Aside from the bottle by the couch, several empty cartons of Chinese sit on the coffee table. "I helped you out! You would never have had anything on Flass if it wasn't for me!"

Jim spins around in his tracks. Oswald can see the cold fury starting to rise within him, alcohol making Jim's emotions all too apparent.

"What did I tell you about Flass?" Jim's words have a certain growl to them that does not go unnoticed. "I told you no one gets hurt, didn't I? And you sat right next to me and you looked me in the eyes and you told me no one would get hurt. After I arrested Flass, I had a little meeting with Delaware, and he got down on his knees and begged me not to hurt his family. Now it took me a while to put two and two together, but eventually I did, and you know what I came up with? I came up with a lying, sniveling little son of a bitch who sent his thugs after my witness after he stared in my face and gave me his word he wouldn't." The detective only slurs his way through a few words of this speech, somehow; Oswald would be impressed if not for the way his words make that weight press down in his gut all the heavier.

"Jim, you of all people should know that in your line of work — in our endeavors — words alone are so rarely enough." And now his words take on a pleading tone — "All of this, I did with only your best interests at heart!"

"My best interests. That's a good one." Jim stares forward not at Oswald, but just past him, towards the door.

"Do you really believe that I would ever betray you? That I would ever lead you astray?" And now, Oswald can feel himself almost spitting those words. "Your own partner would sell you out in a second — and even Barbara's left you high and dry — but I would _never_ betray you, Jim."

This seems to take Jim for a loop, because the other man says nothing. Oswald looks at the other man's expression, tries to read him, his own eyes narrowed, but he comes up blank.

For a moment nothing happens. Then Jim is upon him, fists in his lapels, backing him up against a wall. "Don't you ever mention Barbara's name again. I never want to hear her name come from your mouth ever again, understand?"

Oswald raises his hands, hoping this conciliatory gesture will be enough to calm Jim, but he can't help but shudder at the rush that sweeps over him, being shoved against a wall, Jim's body so close to his, the fire in his eyes. It's so like what he's dreamed about — it's not that long since they met, but it feels like he's been dreaming of Jim forever now. He almost wants to push even harder…so he does.

"You know it's true! She left you at the first sign of trouble. I knew she would. I know her type! But I'm still here for you, Jim."

Jim lowers his face to Oswald's, until he's so close Oswald can feel his breath, reeking of alcohol, stirring the hair against his forehead. His teeth grit together; the gangster is almost sure if he can hear them grinding. "Shut. Up."

Silence hangs heavy between them, but Jim doesn't move off from where he's trapped Oswald against the wall, doesn't let go of his suit jacket, even. An idea, an urge rises within the smaller man then; the very thought of it makes him almost fear for his life, but Jim is so close now, and he isn't moving, so it's not like he could be blamed entirely — in fact, he'd say that Jim has just as big a part in this…this is his chance, and there may never be another.

"I'd never betray you, Jim." His whisper is almost too soft to hear, even in the quiet, as he moves his lips to Jim's before the other man can realize what's about to happen.

The kiss is a glorious thing; it fills the inside of Oswald's chest with a shining, golden light, makes him think of those ridiculous paperback romances his mother litters the apartment with; but this is _real_ , this is no idealized fantasy reflection of romance, and Jim proves it in the next moment, when he jerks backwards and Oswald feels the heavy, numbing sting across his right cheek and lip. The golden light inside him dissolves in a deep purple haze, one that clouds his eyes with a look that could be mistaken for rage, but Jim is not looking in his eyes now, nor even at his face. Instead, he's gazing off at some point to the lower right, the hand that struck Oswald clasped in his other hand, palm outward. The pose is one of contrition.

"I…shouldn't have done that." Jim mutters, and it's not quite clear if he's talking to Oswald or only himself.

Oswald doesn't reply. His cheek burns, and he takes a sharp breath in as he tries to block it out. There's a sludgy, sick feeling in his stomach as he waits for Jim to tell him to get out, to leave him alone for good.

"How long has it been like this?" Jim's voice is low, tense. "No, don't answer that — I'll give you credit for a lot of things, Cobblepot, but you're not nearly as subtle as you'd like to think you are. Not with me. That night in the club — I'd started to suspect a few things. It would have been so easy."

And now Jim leans close again. Oswald's own breath feels uneven, shallow. That viscous stirring in his stomach has now turned into something that makes his head light. Like he's just stood up too fast. He wonders if he's blushing, though his skin still feels cold in the poorly heated room, and the sting in his cheek dissipates only to numbness.

"When you said you'd be my slave for life, is this the sort of thing you thought it meant? Is this what you do for everyone?" Jim asks.

It takes Oswald a moment to reply. That numbness continues to spread down his cheek and to his abdomen. "No." He admits after several more breaths, his voice softer than he'd like. "Just you."

The detective now places both hands upon the wall beside the smaller man, trapping the gangster in place, and it's too much. Oswald clenches and unclenches his fists, and his back presses hard against the wall, as though it might soften and give way.

"I've been trying to be a good man for a long time now. I don't need you coming in here, jeopardizing all of that." But if Jim's words indicate antipathy, his actions display a different story, eyes looking up and down in illusive half-darts, the slight hint of his tongue visible as it presses upward on the side of his mouth.

"I'd never jeopardize you." Oswald looks up at Jim, who now seems just so much larger, so much stronger. "You are a good man, and-"

"And you're not." Jim interrupts. "I find myself asking, every night now, if I did the right thing in saving you. Someone else — anyone else — and you'd have been floating in the river with a hole in your head."

The words make Oswald all but shiver. "I — no one's ever-"

"You're a lot more trouble than you're worth."

And now Jim presses his hand against Oswald's jawline, and the clumsiness of the gesture makes it hard to tell whether the detective is pushing him away or taking in the sensation of skin against skin, but then Oswald feels hot moisture on his neck and realizes that Jim's kissing him — not with kindness, nor softness, but with a predatory possessiveness to it all, like he's only barely in control. Oswald feels his eyelids flutter shut and his head tilt back and to the side of its own accord, exposing his throat to Jim fully. The other man's mouth meets the bulge of his Adam's apple with a low growl that verges on being sinister. A small, pathetic sound issues from Oswald's throat in reply before he can choke it off; luckily, Jim doesn't seem to hear it at all as his teeth graze against the protrusion.

Jim's voice begins to rumble against him in between kisses and nips, and the sounds make him feel warm, like something heated from within. "I think…I should start…making you…earn your keep." As he yanks Oswald's collar open, the shorter man's 'uuhhm' could almost be an agreement.

Jim's hands are working their way down his body, followed by his mouth, which kisses Oswald so feverishly, so avariciously that he thinks Jim might make him endure this for hours, leaning in a half-swoon against the wall while he explores every inch of Oswald's body this way. Oswald wouldn't mind, though, not really, so long as he is Jim's to possess and use any way he feels. He'll give of himself to Jim so fully and with such a selflessness that Fish, Maroni, even Falcone would burn with covetousness if they witnessed it.

The clothing around his torso is divested of, and falls to the floor around him in fabric puddles. Now his belt and trousers are undone, and Oswald feels his breath catch in his throat. For the first time in a long time, he feels he doesn't care if his clothes get wrinkled. He thinks of being sent back to his mother in a suit freshly crumpled; the thought of her reaction almost makes him laugh aloud, giddy as he is. Maybe he won't go home at all tonight.

His trousers follow his upper garments to the floor, and now Jim is hooking his fingertips under Oswald's boxer-briefs, showing no signs of slowing down even at the prospect of someone so pale, scrawny and awkward as Oswald being naked before him. The rush of cool air over him as Jim tugs the fabric down mixes with the misty heat in his head to near overwhelm him.

Oswald feels Jim's hand around his cock, and it makes his hips buck forward, a slight but noticeable gesture. He's already hard, so much that it makes him shudder at Jim's touch — and Jim's grip is tight, almost tight enough to hurt, but not quite. Oswald reaches his hand forward, runs his fingers through Jim's hair, but this touch elicits a gruff grunt from the other man, and then his hand is forced back, pinned by the wrist against the wall, and Oswald can't help but grind his hips forward. How he'd dreamed of this…

Jim stands upright again, and now the residue of Jim's saliva on Oswald's collarbone and chest starts to feel cold in the air of that dingy apartment, as does the rest of him, while everything inside still flutters, feverish, a pinkish sort of shade to every breath. He's not used to being exposed like this; under any other circumstances, he'd be quite embarrassed to be seen by anyone at all, and even now there is still that lingering sense of shame inside his chest, but he doesn't care, if this is how it's going to be, then so be it. If Jim is disgusted by his body, he hasn't made any indication as such.

"You don't see the sun a lot, do you." Jim mutters, but it's not the cruel kind of statement that Oswald's used to; instead, there's something almost affectionate about it, in a strange kind of way, though Jim's tone remains stern, almost gravelly.

Oswald isn't sure if he's supposed to reply to that. He opens his mouth, but then Jim's kissing his neck again, and that hand on his cock is starting to stroke him, so any words just come out as a slow whimper, and then, "please, I'll do anything, I'll do anything for you…"

"Anything?" There's a low chuckle. "I have a feeling I'll be reminding you of that in a few minutes."

Only a bit of trepidation rises up inside Oswald at this statement, far less, perhaps, than there should be. The logical part of his brain doesn't seem to be working at full capacity at the moment, not with Jim stroking him so well, with such a steady grip and rhythm. He can't stop his hips from moving a bit more, even though he wants to stay still, let the pleasure rise and crash over him like a wave. Small, quiet sounds pour from his open mouth, not quite gasps, not quite sighs.

He tries to reach between Jim's legs with his free hand, but as his fingertips touch the front of Jim's trousers, Jim increases the pressure on the hand beneath his own. "No. That comes soon enough."

Jim rests his head against Oswald's neck, and his breath dances red across the pale man's collarbone. Oswald can only whimper, and the sound is borderline pathetic, like he's just about to cry, but he's never been the type to have much stamina for this sort of thing. It's almost painful just how hard Jim's going, but not enough to make the pleasure go away. Each stroke makes his eyelids lower, dimming the room, as his stained teeth bite down upon his lower lip to suppress the way his whimpers are turning into moans.

"Jim, I'm…I can't…" He wants to say something, needs to tell Jim that he can't last long like this, but the man just keeps pumping, and Oswald feels so weak in the knees, held up only by the other man's weight upon him. Now Jim's chest is against his own, fabric slightly rough against his own hairless skin. Oswald closes his eyes tight enough to see the flicker of static as the larger man bites his ear. Each breath tickles his neck, and he opens his mouth to cry out. Now he can't help himself from digging his nails into Jim's back, and he's half-thankful that the fabric is there to keep himself from clawing lines into the other man's skin, because he wants so much to mark this man just as the detective has marked this moment inside of him, as well.

And then the pleasure and the pain are both too much, and the motions of his hips become an uneven spasm. He gasps and leans forward as he comes, shooting forward onto Jim's hand and a bit onto the other man's shirt, his moans obscene, his hands pulling at the fabric of Jim's clothes.

Oswald barely has a chance to recover, though, before he's pushed forward over the arm of the couch, head against the fabric and his ass exposed. He swallows the small bit of saliva that's collected in the back of his mouth. "Wait-" He stammers, as he looks back over his shoulder.

Jim's already unbuckling his belt; Oswald's protestation doesn't even slow him down. "No." Belt undone, he moves forward in a sudden lunge, slaps Oswald twice as hard across his buttock as he'd done to his face. The breath leaves Oswald, doesn't come back before Jim is upon him, his weight heavy over Oswald's back, like he's breathing in the other man. Jim's cock presses against him, leaving a wet trail against his heated skin, and he wonders how Jim managed to free it so quickly. He hadn't expected this side of Jim, but it doesn't surprise him — as Oswald tries to catch his breath, he wonders just what other strange beasts lurk beneath the surface of the other man's controlled veneer.

He can hear Jim spit into his hand, and he knows what's coming, knows it's going to hurt — and it does; Jim didn't feel very large against his skin, but now as that hardness pushes past the resistance of his hole, it's as though he's close to being ripped apart, and he scrabbles for a worn, faded cushion, bites down hard into it, his cry muffled.

There's no relief, though, no letting up until Jim is all the way inside of him, as far as he can go, and then there's a merciful pause. Oswald can hear the ragged breathing behind him, then he turns to ice as he hears the words. "You can never make up for what you've done to me." He's pulled out of, then thrust into, hard this time, with little regard for his comfort. "You've fucked up my life." Another savage thrust, out and in again. "Even this doesn't help."

The tears spring to Oswald's eyes, and he tells himself it's solely from the physical pain, but the growing hollow in his chest puts the lie to that. He hadn't expected it to be sweet, of course — his world is not one of fairy-tale romances and greeting card platitudes, after all. But if that warm, honey-soaked feeling is going to turn to ash after all, then he'll swallow that black stuff instead, and be bares his teeth against the thrusts, and recalls that night against the wall, how he can still remember the scent of Jim's cologne even now as the other man's hands hold his hips tight, sweaty palms against cool skin.

The position that Jim has him in is something urgent, graceless, and the pressure on his bad knee makes the criminal squirm a bit, which Jim must take as some kind of attempt to free himself, because he gasps between thrusts, "No." And then the detective places his hand on Oswald's throat, pulls him back. The smaller man lets out another low, keening whine, before Jim lets go once more, forcing Oswald's face back onto the seat of the couch.

Despite the clumsiness of all of it, now the pain isn't quite so bad, though it's still too hard, too rough, and he can't help but claw his nails against the couch's ratty fabric.

"You feel so fucking tight…" Jim's voice is throaty, words not quite as slurred as before. Each pounding of that cock makes small stars bloom in the edges of Oswald's vision, and he's moaning again, the sounds coming out choked, uneven. His cock remains soft, but he can't help but push back as Jim spreads his inner walls with each thrust, and it feels different, but good, all the same.

"Come on, this is what you wanted, isn't it?" Jim growls. "You said you'd do anything…" And now Jim's hand is reaching around towards Oswald's cock, and Jim's grip upon his shaft makes the smaller man wince, sore in his post-orgasmic state, especially after such a rough handjob.

"Jim…" Oswald shudders as the detective's balls slap against his own, and he's too proud to beg, too ashamed to admit that when he'd said 'anything', he hadn't quite expected something marked by such violent desperation, so instead he focuses on the way that the head of Jim's cock stimulates him with each thrust. His breaths are shallow, caught somewhere between his lips and the tip of his tongue. Each push back inside puts pressure on his prostate, and his cock leaks a few drops of pearly fluid onto the other man's hand. Even through the pain, he wants Jim to claim him, to make it hurt, to leave no doubt of this night. To sear the memory into his mind and into his flesh.

"You like it, don't you?" The hand holding his cock squeezes a few more drops out of him, and Oswald cries out in pain, face scrunching. The sound has no effect on the other man's rhythm. "I know you like this. This is what you've been after all along, right?" Oswald sobs out defeat.

Yes, it's true, he seethes beneath the words; even like this…maybe especially like this. He wouldn't want it to stop. Even someone like Jim must be able to see the perversity in him…perhaps all along.

"Yes…" Oswald admits, his voice cracking. "Please, Jim…"

Jim's thrusts are increasing in intensity now, becoming rapid, powerful blows to his insides, and the hand that was torturing his prick now goes to the back of his neck, digs short, clean nails into his skin, and begins to drag them down his spine. Oswald gasps beneath Jim, sputters, claws at the sofa's upholstery with his own fingers. Oswald's muscles tighten around Jim's cock, which was likely the other man's idea because now Jim pushes forward, embeds himself fully once more, and comes with a sharp groan before he sucks in shaky breaths that sound as though they're being forced through gritted teeth. A few more staccato heaves of his hips and his weight falls heavy onto the hand that now rests in the small of Oswald's back, ragged exhalations cooling down into something calmer, more civilized. After a moment, he withdraws himself, standing up, leaving Oswald a trembling, empty mess below.

There's an affectionate sort of pat on his flank, of the sort one might give a horse. "You weren't bad." The rustling of clothing behind him. "Get yourself cleaned up."

Oswald forces himself to his knees, then to his feet, tests his balance on his good leg before gingerly settling his other foot onto the floor. His trousers are still hanging off of him, bunched around his left ankle, shoes and socks still on his feet. He steps into the other trouser leg, now self-conscious of his nudity, and pulls them and his underwear up in one motion. He can practically feel Jim's gaze penetrating into him, and he cringes at the thought of how he must look right now — so awkward, ridiculous, even. Then there's body heat right behind him, the brush of soft fabric against his shoulders. His head makes a half-turn to the side.

Jim is standing there, Oswald's unbuttoned shirt in his hands, raised still from where he'd tried to help him into it. He doesn't meet Oswald's eyes.

Without a word, Oswald turns back, holds out one arm enough for Jim to get it into his sleeve; the sequence repeats with his other arm, and then Oswald fits buttons through buttonholes while, a few feet away, Jim rustles through his vest, jacket and tie, gathering them up from the floor. Oswald closes his eyes, thinks back to when they'd been discarded, not so very long ago; tries to capture that ethereal golden mist of a feeling as it whips past him on a cold wind, but there's only a few dim wisps left as his eyelids open once more.

"You…want me to leave, don't you?" He asks. When he speaks, he's used to sounding steely and menacing at his best, and sniveling and obsequious at his worst, but his current tone falls on neither extreme, nor does it rest upon the center; instead, his words carry a kind of softness, a vulnerability, and he could kick himself for it, if he had the strength left in him. Still, being left bruised and broken is nothing new, and Oswald has long since learned to overcome the pain, both physical and emotional. After all, he never would have survived his grade school years, let alone his adult life, if he had not developed such coping mechanisms.

He looks at Jim, tries to read the expression on the other man's face. Jim seems just as exhausted as him, and he's still panting, his face and chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Oswald doesn't envy Jim's inevitable hangover the next morning.

"Shit." Jim looks away and rubs his forehead. His eyes are open in what appears to be a slow flush of realization, all of which cements Oswald's notion that Jim really is the type to rush into things without thinking, principles be damned.

Oswald takes the vest and tie and puts them on, now thankful for the layers put between him and the world once more. He's still sore underneath it all, but his shirt collar should cover up the nail-marks on the back of his neck, at least. He doesn't put the jacket on quite yet, however, as though to put it on would be to admit that this little tryst was really over.

"Well, I'm glad that we could come to a suitable arrangement, Jim Gordon." Oswald's words come out more bitter than anything else, as the gangster straightens up his clothes, tries his best to fall back into something prim, cold, untouchable.

"I…Oswald." Jim finally looks at the smaller man, and it's a look of half apology, half pity. "Christ, I-" Jim raises his hand to his face once more, then pulls it back down, his other hand upon his hip. The look on his face is now one of shame — Oswald wonders how long the detective's been holding back this side of himself. Many years, the gangster can only surmise.

And now Oswald can't help but let the smallest inkling of a smirk pinch up one edge of his lips as he walks back over. With his leg worse than ever, it can't be the soft, subtle gesture that he might like, but still he manages to look up at Jim all the same as he places his finger on the other man's lips. He expects Jim to pull away, but he doesn't. Even from this slight touch, however, the tension is so obvious, as though the detective's using every muscle in his body not to recoil from the touch. Such shame indeed, Oswald thinks.

"Your secret's safe with me."

"I…I've never…" Jim pulls back a bit.

"I suppose there's a first time for everything." And the acridity creeps back into Oswald's words.

"Christ. Look, Oswald, I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know what I was thinking -"

"So you regret it, then?" A pause. Oswald tries to make his voice come out hurt, ashamed. He doesn't have to apply all his considerable talent at deception, he finds. "I repulse you, don't I? What you must think of me…"

"It's not-" A hand goes to Jim's head again, shielding his eyes from Oswald momentarily; when it lowers, his gaze is contrite, gentle, even. "It's not like that. Look, I've been — drinking. Tonight, it — it shouldn't have played out this way." A twinge travels up from Oswald's bad knee, making him wince. Sprawled over the arm of a sofa was not an easy position to maintain. But the jolt of guilt he can see in Jim's face at the cringe is more than worth it. "Ah, jeez. Did I hurt you?"

"I can manage." He begins to shuffle toward the door, a bit more visibly painfully than is entirely warranted. "I'll be leaving now."

Behind him, he can hear two quick, heavy footfalls and then Jim's hand grasps his shoulder. "Hey, no, stop. Sit down for a while first. How'd you get here? Did you walk? At least let me call you a cab." This, Oswald thinks. This is the Jim Gordon he knows. He wonders if he'll ever have a chance to see the other Jim again, the one he was introduced to tonight. The thought makes his stomach twist, his head cloud.

"There's no need. I'll be fine after a brief rest." Truthfully, he doesn't want to be forced out of Jim's apartment by the arrival of a cab just yet. He'd like to postpone that moment forever, if he could. He lets Jim steer him studiously past the couch and toward a small, worn armchair, the upholstery starting to rub off in patches. Easing himself into it, he's surprised to find it more comfortable than it looks. His hands clasp primly in his lap.

Jim stands there, staring down at him for a moment that stretches just past the point of being comfortable, expression hard to read in the dim light, before he seems to come back to himself. "Can I get you something to drink?" Jim's eyes flick to the place where the whiskey bottle sits and Oswald takes note of the slight tug of a grimace at his lip.

"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, if it isn't too much trouble."

Jim looks at a loss. "Uh, I don't have…is water okay?"

"Water is fine."

Jim retreats into the kitchenette, and there's the sound of wooden doors clattering, glasses clinking, the running of the tap. Oswald purses his lips, makes use of the brief time alone to think up possible ways this visit could be extended even further.

As he adjusts his position on the chair, the motion sends a shiver of pain up his spine — his ass aches, and he knows that he's going to be feeling it for a while. He closes his eyes, swears he can feel the ghosts of hands still on his hips, wet-lip trails down his neck and chest even underneath all of those clothes.

Oswald remembers a magic show he'd seen once as a child, something that his mother had taken him to — the magician had been tall, thin, dressed in pinstripes; he'd wrapped those spidery, white-gloved fingers around some point inside his mouth and pulled out black-and-purple scarves, a seemingly endless strand of them, all knotted, un-wet from saliva.

Oswald can't help but smirk a small bit as Jim returns with that glass of water. "Thank you." He says, voice soft, curt.

Jim sits down on the couch. Oswald notices a small wet patch where he'd bitten onto one of the pillows. Jim's hand comes to rest just an inch to the left of it. The thought of Jim reacting to that reminder gives Oswald a strange sort of pulse just beneath his chest, but he decides that the poor man has enough on his mind as it is.

"Is that the first time you've done that…with someone like me?" Oswald asks.

"A man?" Jim replies. He's not quite looking at Oswald, but he's not looking away, either — like his gaze is towards Oswald's neck or chest, and not his face. "Yeah." Jim admits.

"But it's not the first time you've thought about it." Oswald remembers that magician's fingers. With those gloves, they looked so white. His own hands aren't half as clean.

"No."

Oswald wonders if Jim has thought about it with him before. He decides that for all of his prying, it's better if he doesn't know the answer to that part yet.

"You won't be able to avoid me, you know." Oswald doesn't mean it as a threat, although the softness in his words gives them a flickering sort of menace that he hadn't quite intended.

And now Jim gazes up with a vulnerability that Oswald hadn't expected. _You poor thing_ , Oswald wants to say. He'd taken for granted how used to all of this he is, how he doesn't bat an eye anymore at the way that people hurt one another, the way that blackmail and intimidations can press like steel against one's neck. Jim only has one foot in that pool; Oswald nearly feels it sloshing up around his heart each night. But he's not all gone, he swears, he swears.

"I wanted to do terrible things to you." And now Jim's looking at Oswald's face. "You can't imagine how hard it is, sometimes."

At this, Oswald just chuckles and then takes a sip of water. "Can't I?"

Jim doesn't reply for a second or two. "No, you can't." There's a certainty to his words that makes Oswald shiver, makes him feel disinclined to press further, although he wonders what could be worse than what they've already faced, the two of them. He sips his water in silence, mulling things over. Jim doesn't look at him now; instead, he's staring at his hands, fiddling with them as if he doesn't quite know what to do with them.

Oswald makes no attempt to break the awkward silence that settles in between them, letting it build until Jim is finally forced to ask him, "How's your leg?"

"Not much better, I'm afraid. Forgive me for asking, but — may I trouble you for some aspirin, if you have any?"

"Aspirin, sure." Jim gets up, retreats down the hallway, leaving Oswald to crane his neck after him, guessing at what the rooms hidden further back might look like. Maybe he'd get a chance to see them, after all. At that thought, he feels the slight blush of warmth inside his body once more, that heaviness no longer quite as ready to pull him down into its depths.

It doesn't take long for Jim to return, and he pours a couple of small white pills into Oswald's open palm. "Hey, while you're waiting for those to kick in, I'm gonna go shower, alright? Just…stay here. I won't be long."

"Oh — take as long as you need," He blurts out in reply, hoping he doesn't seem too enthusiastic about this development. This is convenient; now he won't need to think of a way to get Jim out of the room long enough for his next action to be feasible.

Jim does look somewhat perturbed, but he goes back into the dim hallway all the same, another, firmer, "Stay here" his only admonishment in the face of Oswald's eagerness. The corners of the young man's lips twitch upwards in the hint of something optimistic. Stay here…the gangster was planning on doing nothing more.

Oswald relaxes back into the armchair, unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. Might as well try to get as comfortable as possible. And now, his lips truly form a smile as his eyes close.

• • •

Jim had been right; the shower had been a quick one, after all. Oswald was quite sure it hadn't been five minutes total from the time he had left what passed for a sitting room, till the sound of water in the pipes was extinguished, and from there it's only a trifling few moments until the sound of Jim's footsteps are padding back down the hall toward him. He's almost sorry he won't get to see what Jim wears to bed. Luckily, though, it's no hardship to convincingly fake being asleep; he's had enough practice over the years from his mother's frequent nocturnal, post-bedtime check-ups. And so, he's confident his limbs are relaxed and his breathing deep and regular enough to fool Jim as he feels the other man pause above him. He doesn't flinch at the mumbled, half-hearted curse the other man lets out, either; he stays quite still, but not unnaturally so. Oswald's ears pick up the sounds of Jim's muttered frustrations, followed up by a weary sigh and, finally, hesitant steps that tail away from the couch area and back into the as-yet-unseen rooms.

Oswald waits until the room goes silent to allow himself a contented sigh, one hand reaching down to nestle down between his legs as the darkness overcomes him. And, in the stillness of the room, the expression on his face might almost look sweet, despite it all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I have to say that both myself (novoentrudo) and my co-author (restlessjude) are very flattered by the feedback and kind words that we've received thus far. We can't thank you enough, and hope that we can continue to update at a reasonable pace.
> 
> I also want to iterate very clearly that this is not meant to be a romanticization of any of the themes explored. Both of our personal work tends to go into some pretty dark territory, and this is no exception to the rule. In short, please don't think that this is meant to depict anything but a less-than-healthy relationship between two decidedly flawed individuals.

In the darkened apartment, the headlights from cars below cast a lonely, blue-white sheen upon the walls and ceiling, illuminating the room in sonar-sweeps of light, showing scraps of old, striped wallpaper, a few boxes still sitting on a desk in the corner, brief glimpses into a cramped kitchen inside of which more empty take-out boxes sit, to say nothing of the other bottles, some full, some half-empty, that stand upon the counter.

Oswald listens to the sounds that flow up through the walls; the rattle of the pipes, the occasional creaking of wood, the distant thump of something pushed against the wall. He's used to this sort of noise; a reassurance that everything is continuing on in Gotham as normal. During his brief exile in the countryside outside the city, he'd fallen asleep unnerved by the lack of car honks, shouts, and clattering trash-bins as knocked over by stray animals or vagrants. He likes the noise. In his experience, it's when things are silent that he needs to worry.

Everything aches, inside and out; so easy it would be to allow his body to lapse into sleep, but his mind remains active, churning, like something mixed upon the stovetop but not allowed to boil over. And so Oswald doesn't let his eyes close for any longer than a blink, too afraid that he'll fall asleep and be woken up by a rude shake, and that will be the end of it.

So instead, he remains focused on the sweeping lights as they make their fade-in, fade-out journeys across the apartment. There's a small crack in the wall that Jim had pushed the gangster up against; had it been there before? Oswald doesn't remember hearing the crack of plaster or feeling anything give way behind him. He wonders how many other gaps and fractures fill the apartment, fill the city, just waiting to become the marker to some sordid incident or other.

He's stirred from this reverie by a faint, deep groan. The source he recognizes right away, and he turns his head towards the hallway that leads to the bedroom and bathroom; is Jim having a bad dream? Oswald's mother is prone to occasional nightmares, and the criminal can no longer count the number of times that he's been pulled from rest by frantic gasps of "Боже мой! Стоп!" — but whereas her cries sound as melodramatic as the tin-voiced radio plays that she displays such fondness for, the cry that Oswald hears at present has a sincere but muted desperation to it, a truth in all of it that half scares him and half energizes. He stands up, makes his way into the shadowed part of the apartment. Jim's shudders are neither loud, nor are they quiet — clipped, not words, but some sound that wants so desperately to say something through the sleep.

He reaches the door that must be Jim's bedroom, and thankfully, the door itself opens without a creak. The room is darker than the rest of the apartment, lacking even light that might ghost in through sliver-gap beneath a curtain; in fact, Oswald's not even sure where the window is at all. He steps forward, tries to squint to make out the bed, and as his eyes adjust to the meager light the open door lets in, he finally makes out Jim's outline where he lays, broad shoulders a monument in the too-large bed.

The groaning starts again, along with the sound of covers rustling. Oswald steps forward one step more. "Jim..." He whispers. No response for a moment, and then another gruff shudder. Oswald moves closer to the bed, eyes wide in the dark. "Jim!" He says, just a touch louder this time, more emphatic, his legs almost touching the mattress as he looks down on the sleeping man.

Oswald places one hand upon Jim's shoulder, and the suddenness of Jim's next motion makes him cry out as he's pushed back, as the larger man lunges up, drags Oswald down onto the mattress. The hand on Oswald's throat is broad, unyielding, and the pressure brings tears to the dark-haired man's eyes. Pinned there, chest up, his legs kick uselessly at the slick floorboards, but find no purchase.

The hand pinning him by the throat doesn't let up; if anything, the pressure seems to be getting greater, and this and panic leave Oswald gasping noiselessly, mouth gaping like a landed fish. He reaches for his throat as well, his fingers skittering over Jim's in a desperate search for a way underneath, to pry them off, but there is no way and his vision is blurring at the edges. He'd cry out in despair if he could make a sound, but that failing, he claws frantically at Jim's face.

The pressure lets up all at once and Oswald wheezes, tearing up but grateful for oxygen once more. Jim's face is largely shadow, and he doubts he'd be able to see much of it even without the bright spots sparking over everything in his field of vision. He can tell that Jim is quite still, and he's saying nothing — Oswald doubts if the other man even realizes he's there until the raspy, confused "Oswald?" sets him right.

His own first few attempts to speak are little more than rattling coughs.

"Oswald." Jim sounds more coherent now, awake enough to begin to realize the situation. Oswald can't help but flinch away from the suddenness of the hand on his shoulder; he's shaken slightly, as though Jim is trying to reassure himself that Oswald is really there, alive and in front of him. Only a few dim fireworks go off in front of his eyes now, and he's almost proud of himself, in a way, for his show of fortitude in not fainting, despite the shaking in his limbs.

"...Jim," he finally manages.

"Fuck's sake, what are you doing in here?"

Oswald's breath feels wet in his throat, and he places his hands on his neck, rubbing at the soreness left behind. "I…was worried about you." He admits. He feels a tear drip down the outer edge of his left eye, and he wipes it away, hoping that Jim can't see it in the dark.

The gangster doesn't need to ask just what that was all about; he's seen the homeless vets that wander from alley to soup kitchen, those battles just as vivid as ever, jungles and deserts and all in between; the wars may be different, but the scars are still the same. He doesn't want to think of what might have happened if that grip had been released just a second too late — a feeling half like terror fills his stomach, but he chokes it down, just as he chokes down the thick saliva that has now collected like sludge in the back of his raw throat.

"Rule number one." Jim doesn't touch the other man, but the sternness in his words make Oswald stiffen all the same. "You don't wake me up. You don't come in here without warning."

Oswald doesn't reply. Did Barbara hear these same words? Is this the sort of conversation that Jim dreads giving Leslie? He closes his eyes, and lets the meager light fade into all-dark once more, because he can't help but feel the slightest bit of pride at this, as well; he's privy to something so secretive. Secrets sometimes feel like small stones, smooth between his fingertips, and this is no exception.

"Are we clear?"

Oswald opens his eyes again. Jim is a darker shadow in the duskiness of the room; focusing on his shape, the warm glow of light in the corner of Oswald's vision recedes until it's nothing. He doesn't hesitate.

"Yes."

His heart continues to race, but it's slowing now, just enough that he can blink away the last vestiges of dread. Rules, put in place for a reason. Lines that cannot be crossed.

"Good." Jim's outline shifts as he leans back. Oswald wonders if Jim can make out his face in the dark. What would he see? Maybe it's for the best if there's nothing to see — Oswald feels open, vulnerable, and he's sure his expression must reflect that. If there's one deception he never learned in full, it's how to keep those sharper-edged feelings off his face.

He can hear Jim's breathing, even in the still air. Even the nighttime ambience of the city seems to have quietened for the moment, a sort of hushed expectancy seeping in to everything around, or is that only his imagination? But it isn't, Jim wraps strong arms around him and somehow finds his mouth in the darkness. If he closes his eyes he can almost pretend nothing exists except for Jim.

The warmth that washes up from deep inside spreads out around his lungs, makes his muscles feel a loosened, rosy mass, even stills the sting that still pinches at his cheeks, his leg, his ass. He kisses Jim with a greedy, sloppy sort of need, not fueled by desperation, but guided by it all the same. Jim tastes of mouthwash over alcohol and grit, and Oswald's tongue flits forward through teeth much whiter than his own, an intrusion that he hopes won't push the other man away, but Jim only sighs against his lips, and the vibration travels just enough down Oswald's mouth to become something he can swallow up and make his own.

Oswald doesn't consider himself a soft man — not soft the way he thinks of someone like that dear, departed Liza. She'd been soft pretending to be hard, whereas he considers himself quite the opposite. But all the same, he imagines she must have felt this same sort of bloom within her chest, that same sort of butterfly-and-hallmark wistfulness with every touch from her beloved; he imagines this is what those pop songs and romance movies try to capture in their words and images.

But Jim pulls away, and Oswald's mouth remains open, now sucking in the empty air. It's not enough, but he'll be good, for now.

"Lie down." The way it's said leaves no room for questioning, and for now, it suits Oswald to do as he's told. Jim's mattress has little give, but it feels nice against his back, as though this is already his rightful place, suited just for him. Jim leans over him, and this time it's Jim's tongue gliding between his teeth, soft and warm and hungry. Jim's hand braces against Oswald's chest, sliding restlessly along the front of his vest as though trying to feel every contour of Oswald's torso at once through his clothes, too impatient to stop and fumble with buttons. He dimly hopes Jim doesn't get too clumsy in his lust, start tearing away at fabric, but he wouldn't hold it against him too much if that was the outcome. It's a boon that Jim doesn't yet know all the things he could get away with.

Jim doesn't bother to grope Oswald through his trousers, fingers immediately finding the zipper catch and fumbling there before managing to unbutton and unzip on the third try. Oswald's sure Jim has no doubts as to his effect on him, and he's not proven wrong as his hand wraps around Oswald's already stiff cock, pumping it slowly, near lazily as Jim pulls away, catching Oswald's bottom lip between his teeth and letting it tug away. He reaches for Jim, hands against back muscles and lean bicep, drawn so taut under his fingers Oswald's sure it must ache. Things obviously hadn't progressed very far with his newest flame yet — or was she now his second-newest?

There's some part of Oswald that's still terrified that this night is just some anomaly, a regret to be pushed down and forgotten, swept away like yesterday's newspaper scraps when dawn does finally break, and so he ignores the soreness in his body in favor of whatever pleasures he call swallow down. He'll savor every touch until it bruises, and his hips push forward, an automatic motion as his body gives over to instinct. At this, though, Jim removes his hand from Oswald's shaft, and the sudden loss of contact only makes the dark-haired man's breath more shallow, his toes stretching and then curling inside of his socks and shoes.

Oswald's hands continue to hold onto the other man's shoulders; he's not strong enough to pull Jim chest-to-chest, but still he's close enough to feel the detective's breath across the exposed bit of skin on his neck. Oswald's mouth remains open, Jim's own lips just out of reach. Jim continues to hold him there, neither letting him go nor moving closer. The smaller man feels his heart rate rise once more, out of something far different from fear this time; Jim must be trained in catching "tells" during interrogation, and Oswald wonders just how many hints he's picking up right now. In lieu of spoken confessions, is the fever in his eyes enough? Is the lack of squirming, writhing, now enough to make it clear enough how tame he's willing to become?

Jim's hand reaches up, first sliding over Oswald's neck and chin before Jim's index finger presses between the criminal's lips. Oswald sucks it with an involuntary eagerness, as his right hand reaches down towards his cock.

"No." Jim says, and the detective's other hand pins Oswald's wrist beside his head. The restraint only makes Oswald harder, and he squirms up against the cold air.

Another finger forces its way between Oswald's lips and presses down upon his tongue. Oswald closes his eyes; there's nothing soft and tender in the gesture as Jim pushes in almost to the knuckle. Oswald doesn't gag, but only because he suppresses the urge, focusing instead on Jim's fingerprints, his tongue-tip sliding across them in small spirals. Jim tastes like very little; perhaps the slightest hint of soap, and Oswald finds himself sucking harder in the hopes of tasting something bitter underneath it all.

"You only like men, don't you?" Jim asks. Oswald supposes that he does, if he wants to put it that way; it's not something that he's dwelled upon, cared to put labels onto. He nods as well as he can in that position, and laps his tongue into the space between Jim's two fingers.

Jim pulls his hand away slowly, leaving a slight trail of saliva down Oswald's chin. Oswald lets out a keening sort of whimper, just low enough to overshadow his heart beat and the pulse of blood against his ear, as he turns his head to the side. Jim's hand now strokes his neck, and there is a kind of tenderness to it; if only Oswald could make out more than just the shadowed hints of Jim's expression.

"I don't want to hurt you, you know." Whispered words against Oswald's skin as the detective kisses him just beneath his ear.

"I believe you." Oswald nods. "You won't."

A long silence. Jim pulls back just enough for his breath to tickle Oswald's skin. "You don't know that, you know."

Oswald laughs, a slight and nervous sound in the darkness. "Compared to the people that I deal with daily, I assure you that you're far more trustworthy than the lot of them."

More silence, and then, Jim's hands upon his shoulders. "Here." The detective guides Oswald up, as he readjusts his own position. "Lay across my lap, like this, on your stomach."

Oswald does as he's told. Though his clothes are still on, the change in position makes his stomach feel light and giddy, as his erection grinds forward against Jim's legs. He tries to keep himself as still as possible, however; he remembers that magician once more, and wonders just how many scarves of his own he's pulled out tonight, or if he'll do something wrong and the whole strand will break off, with nothing left to grab onto.

Jim's fingers tug at Oswald's pants, not bothering with the belt buckle. Oswald hisses slightly as his cock, which had been pushing through the flap of his trousers, is scraped by the metal of the zipper and the buckle, but thankfully he'd left his belt loose enough that it doesn't take more than a slight lifting of his hips to get his trousers and underwear down around his knees. The sensation of the cold air against his bare skin makes him shiver very slightly, a response fueled more by anticipation than temperature.

Jim pushes his fingers into Oswald's mouth again, and despite the hunger with which the dark-haired man slurps on the tips, it's a brief intrusion, leaving Oswald's mouth wet and empty once more. But any yearning on his end is quickly satisfied by the way that Jim's spit-slicked fingers now slide into the cleft of Oswald's ass, against his hole. Oswald's still sore, but there's a kind of softness to the pain, dulling it to something lukewarm and familiar.

"Can you handle this?" Jim asks.

"Yes, please…" Oswald's eyes shut tight, and his fingers grip the covers once again as Jim's finger pushes against him, not enough to force its way inside of him quite yet, but enough to spread the ring of muscle just slightly.

Jim sighs, a deep, low breath, and leans back.

"How long had you been thinking about this?" Jim breathes, his voice sounding distant through the haze Oswald can feel hanging thick between them. His finger presses harder, then lets up just before it breaches Oswald, jarring a desperate little moan from the smaller man. "Were you thinking about it when I had you up against the wall, in the alleyway? Or maybe even back on the pier." He doesn't answer, and no further prying comes from Jim; Oswald could almost believe he had only been talking to himself.

Jim slips inside him now, and Oswald gasps, but does not cry out — he can tell from the ease of that intrusion that he's been loosened up a bit by the rough fucking he received on the couch, and though it's still tight, still a bit uncomfortable, it doesn't sting.

"You feel good…" Though Oswald can't see Jim's face, he can imagine a smile on the detective's face as he says this, and it makes him smile just a bit in turn. He's never felt himself to be particularly attractive, and though it's not something he loses sleep over, the thought that he might be desired by this man makes his head feel soaked with something dense and honey-smelling.

Jim's finger twists and re-angles itself just enough to send a quiver of pleasure up Oswald's spine. Oswald struggles not to hold his breath, so focused is he on the sensation of it all.

"Rule number two." Jim's voice is low, and the words rush charcoal-rough against Oswald's spine. "When we're together like this, you call me 'Officer'."

And now Jim pushes his finger in deeper, tickles it against Oswald's prostate. The criminal's so sore, but the pressure against his prostate makes him gasp despite his best efforts to keep all of this under his control.

"Does this mean that we're…that you'll want to see me again?" Oswald gasps these words out. "O- officer?" He adds.

There's a brief rasp above him, something almost like a chuckle. "Good boy." Oswald shudders hard, the phrase almost as physical a sensation to him as the finger embedded inside him, making his muscles jump and twitch with every stroke. "Yeah. We'll be seeing more of each other." Oswald smiles fully this time, sure Jim must feel it radiating off him even in the dark. "Just not at the precinct. Understand?" Oswald's almost too giddy to respond; the sudden jerk of Jim's finger inside him, pitching down against his prostate almost hard enough to be uncomfortable, brings a harsh gasp bursting from his throat. "Understand?" Jim's voice is a hard thing.

"Y-yes. Officer."

"Good. I'm glad we understand each other." The pressure against his inner wall eases up, and his next gasp comes in a long-drawn shudder. The ache is melting away into something warm, soothing almost, and Oswald's eyes close, his breath coming in shallow pants. He doesn't even need to try rubbing against Jim's thigh, such is sweetness of the sensation that flows over his body like a stream of warm water. Jim's finger suddenly withdraws, and Oswald wants to protest, is about to speak when it nudges insistently against his hole again, joined by a second fingertip.

The discomfort edges against Oswald again, enough to make him tense up faintly, but he makes no protest as Jim works this second digit in alongside the first, slowly but tenaciously. He's still loosened up from the fucking he'd received only a few short hours ago, so it's not very long before both fingers are sliding in fully, making him tense up again, in pleasure this time as both fingers brush against the sensitive gland inside him. This time, Jim begins to fuck him with those digits, thrusting them in and out in a steady, unhurried rhythm. Oswald's hips do buck, at this, the head of his cock making contact with Jim's pajama-covered thigh.

Oswald can feel Jim's own erection pressing up against him, separated by the thin fabric. The detective doesn't seem to be quite as hard as Oswald, but nonetheless, there is a small spot of what feels like pre-come wetness; Oswald doesn't know if it's his own, or the other man's, and his insides grow heated at the thought of either possibility. "I'm…please, I want to-" He begins to say, and then Jim grinds in hard enough to make colorless blossoms spread out from the corners of his vision. "Off- officer-" He tries to form words, but he can only gasp and shudder. His own moans are not quite loud enough to cover up the slick sound of Jim moving in and out, faster now, and then a third finger is added. This is almost too much, but it doesn't hurt, just makes him want to beg for more, because it's so much better than anything he's had before. Everything in the past has always felt like a substitution for something else — some frantic act taken only because the opportunity presented itself, but not something relished, not something to be looked back with anything less than shame at worst and cold indifference at best.

"What is it you want?" Jim asks.

Oswald's too delirious to question whether the other man is speaking in terms of the bigger picture, or more immediate circumstances. "I want you to fuck me…" Oswald all but pleads. "Officer." There's a slight wash of shame at the way that last word lingers on his tongue.

"Tell me again…" And now Jim's fingers are twisting, opening up the gangster more fully.

"Fuck me, officer…" Oswald repeats, and his eyes feel almost teary, mouth hot and wet with each breath that steams out into the cold of the room.

"Fuck, that word sounds so good coming from your mouth." Jim sounds far gone, despite not having been touched; Oswald can't help but revel in the thought that doing this to him is enough to make Jim feverish. "Do you get off on knowing I could have you in a cell tomorrow, that I know all the bad things you've done? You really are low…a slimy little double-crosser." Jim's voice doesn't carry quite the sting that his words would imply; it's calm, even — warm almost. "I know you're a bad man, Cobblepot…but you won't hurt me, will you?"

"N-never, never officer, God." Oswald's own words spill out, a semi-incoherent stream, voice jagged, all silver-tongued eloquence far beyond his reach now. That feeling's sitting in the base of his spine now, a heavy, giddy unease that builds as Jim's fingers start to massage him with every inward thrust. Jim's voice cuts into it.

"You need to come, Oswald?"

"Yes, please, officer…"

"Hold it back. I'm not finished with you yet." Oswald grits his teeth at this, bites down on his tongue in an effort to focus on something else. "I know I'm not gonna change you…you'll go back out there tomorrow, to whoever it is you're working for now, whatever godforsaken rathole they're hiding in, and you'll start up your routine again, just like I will. I know it's necessary for you…but from now on, you'll report to me, too. Do as I say. Are we clear?"

Oswald doesn't think he can get the words out, afraid the pain of his teeth loosening from his tongue might make him lose control of himself, but somehow he staves it off enough to moan out "Yesss, officer."

"Good." Jim's fingers twist in him sharply. "You can come now, Oswald."

Oswald grinds his hips forward now, just enough to give himself some friction against his cock; it pushes against Jim's thigh, his body almost forced down by the weight with which Jim gives his every thrust. He barely needs to be touched at all, just needs that little bit to send him right over the edge-

"Officer…"

And Oswald shudders, like his body had been clenching every muscle as hard as it could go, and now all the tightness comes undone. He feels the rush first in his balls, and then his cock, which twitches as his orgasm overtakes him; but he doesn't even really feel the way his cum shoots forward against the fabric of Jim's pajamas — no, what he feels is the way his muscles pulse up hot against Jim's fingers, which continue to drill in and out, and the sound that pierces through the room is something that he almost doesn't recognize as his own voice, a ragged, beaten, hard-edged sort of cry, crazed in all the fever of the moment. He knows he's trying to say something, but the words spill out as something loosened up to only vowels as his toes clench at his own socks inside his shoes. His hands pull the covers close, and then he finally collapses, panting, his every appendage limp, his body spent.

Jim now removes his fingers, eliciting one final sigh from the dark-haired man. Oswald's thoughts make some vague attempt to re-form in the darkness of the room, but coalesce into nothing of meaning. Instead, he allows himself to fall into that emptiness left behind, and it's narcotic, a new feeling entirely; he doesn't have a word for it, but it doesn't scare him.

"Good." Jim pats Oswald's ass once more, before he wipes his fingers on the covers. "These were my last clean pair of pajamas…" The detective adds with a low grumble, though Oswald almost catches some hint of a chuckle in those words, and he laughs without thinking.

The two men pull themselves apart with ungainly, tired motions. This room lacks even an electric clock, and without those red numbers to spell out the time, Oswald can only guess at the lateness of the hour.

Jim pulls off his pajama bottoms and collapses down upon the bed, leaving Oswald laying next to him.

"Can I stay here?" Oswald asks. He's too tired to add 'officer' to the end of it.

"Hmm?" Jim readjusts the sheets and pulls the covers over his body. "Oh, yeah."

There's still a noticeable bulge under the thin sheets, and Oswald starts to make a move for it. Jim grunts dismissively, causing Oswald's hand to pause halfway up his thigh.

"Leave it. Too tired. Today's been rough."

Oswald feels a slight twinge of something like guilt. "Are you sure? I'd like to..."

"I'm sure."

He withdraws his hand, making sure to trail his fingers regretfully against Jim's thigh on the way. He really would like to, but tonight has brought him so much more than he dared hope for already, and a peaceful sluggishness is already settling over him like a blanket. He can wait.

Oswald uses his last bit of strength to kick his shoes and trousers off and pull his boxer-briefs up to cover himself once more. "Do you mind if I take my-" He asks, fingers already starting to unbutton his vest and shirt beneath the jacket that now slips down from his shoulders.

"Go ahead." Jim interrupts.

It doesn't take long to get the rest of Oswald's clothes off, and he folds them loosely on the floor before he tucks himself back under the covers.

He realizes that he's never slept beside anyone; not since he was a small child, curled against his mother's side after a bad dream. He's seen movies, though; seen the way that men hold women tight, and it always struck him as uncomfortable, confining. Jim is still on his back, and Oswald, on his side, lets his vision trace over the man's profile in silhouette. It's quiet outside now, so late that even the alley-cats must be asleep, so early that even the newsboys have not yet awoken for their rounds.

Oswald decides to turn around, onto his side. It puts less pressure on his bad leg, although it means that he's now facing only the wall, and not the man beside him. Still, Jim is only a slightly clearer outline in the dark in comparison, and he doesn't want to stare, doesn't want to make this good man too uncomfortable. There had once been only fantasy, after all, and Oswald's still afraid to jinx what he holds now.

He knows that there will never be dates between them, that they will never share a bottle of wine and walk arm-in-arm along the docks. He knows that they will not find a name for what they share, that they will not watch movies, shop for groceries, or pick out holiday cards together.

He's surprised, all the same, when he feels strong arms wrap around him. The touch makes Oswald stiffen for a moment. Jim's cock is only half-hard now, and it presses against Oswald's ass, fitting with a warm pronouncement between the gangster's muscles.

"I think…you do try." Jim's breath wisps though his hair. "To be good, I mean."

Oswald's too tired for his laugh to be anything more than a voiced exhalation. It's not that he tries to be _bad_ , not _really_ — but he knows he's always acted in his own best interest, and he remembers the words that school counselors and teachers used to refer to him when they thought he'd passed out of hearing range.

He's also overheard conversations between some of the men that he works with, how they justify what they do with something resembling principles or morals — "I'd never hurt a woman or a child," they say, as if this absolves them from all guilt. And while he can't imagine himself ever doing any harm to one of these designated innocents, it doesn't give him the sick kind of repulsion that he supposes he _should_ feel. Jim probably recoils at the idea of shooting a man in self-defense; Oswald, on the other hand, feels giddiness at the idea of having some revenge on one who'd dare to cross him. Even now, the thought of Maroni's blood spilling down onto the ground makes his insides just as red-hot as that touch from Jim, though this time, he lets the image slip from his mind just as easily as it flickered in, in favor of more present circumstances.

"And I think that you try hard to not be bad." Oswald replies, starting to relax against Jim's touch. "But you don't need to worry so much."

Jim doesn't respond to this, and instead, squeezes Oswald a bit closer. The black-haired man finds the restraint almost too confining, but the proximity and all the promises that it entails do not allow that swirling feeling in his gut to dissipate, those sentiments held in place by warm arms, firm muscles, and now Oswald gives into it in full again. He feels Jim's breathing go slow, knows that the other man must be asleep.

"You are a good man." He mouths more than whispers, and it takes little time for the black behind his eyelids to wash away all waking thought.

• • •

The muffled sounds of the shower through the closed door are what pull Oswald out of sleep. The sun filters in through the drawn blinds, hitting his face with beams as strong as they ever are in Gotham. The empty side of the bed is still warm, and he doesn't have to grapple for the memory of where he is or why he's here. He rolls over onto his back, links his hands behind his head, one hand ruffling his dark hair back on the way, and listens to the shower while he considers what to do. At least Jim's second in the past twenty-four hours, the gangster realizes.

Part of Oswald wonders if he should get up and leave before the bathroom door opens again, as to avoid what will, in all probability, be an awkward morning; but Jim did say he wanted to see him again — it isn't as though this is some regrettable one night stand. At least, he hopes Jim won't feel that way in the clear light of the morning. Besides, it might be a good idea to have a shower himself before venturing back out into the world. He wonders if the smell of sex still clings to him, unnoticeable to himself, but unmistakable to others. Surely there are rumors about him amongst those he works with; he doesn't need to give them any evidence of truth.

The dull thudding of the water stops and in the quieter few moments that follow, Oswald can feel his heart palpitating harder, as though trying to fill the void the water left.

Jim opens up the bathroom door and steps back into the bedroom, wearing only his boxers.

"Morning." Oswald smiles, hoping that the expression he sees on Jim's face is one of early-morning bleariness and not revulsion.

"Morning." Jim nods. "You're…going to get yourself cleaned up?"

"If that's alright."

"Yeah." Jim's words are flat, perfunctory — but not unfriendly. "Make it quick, and I'll have some toast ready by the time you're out."

Oswald smiles in reply. "Yes, that sounds very nice." So, perhaps there's no hint of that thing that they'd tapped into last night, but it's better than the "get out" that he'd been dreading.

And now he clutches onto the dresser as he pulls himself into a standing position — morning is always hard on his knee, and he massages the knot of muscles on the left side. He looks down at the ground, briefly embarrassed to be seen in such a state of vulnerability. Jim just watches — which is better than some pitying offer for help. Oswald doesn't wince, though, even as he takes his first step forward and the pain splinters out from his joint and up his thigh.

"Alright." Jim just nods, as Oswald walks past him towards the bathroom. As the gangster passes, he swears that he can still feel the heat that rises off the other man's body — foolish, he thinks he's being, like a schoolboy with a crush, and he's relieved for the brief solitude again as he closes the bathroom door and sheds his undergarments.

In the light of day, he can see that last night left a few bruises, here and there. He touches them gingerly, pressing them with his fingers to feel the soreness. He doesn't mind them, although they're nothing to compare to what the night did to his inner being. It's almost as though he can feel the page turned on his life and a new chapter starting to be written.

He doesn't linger too long in the shower, mindful of not upsetting Jim or letting his toast go cold. The water's turned up hot enough to leave his skin red, and he wonders if Jim will notice once he sees him again.

Jim has just begun to eat his own breakfast when Oswald wanders in, freshly scrubbed and fully dressed, to sit across from him in last night's same armchair. The kitchen is a tiny one, no table or chairs in sight, judging by what Oswald can glimpse from his position. Jim's eating his toast out of a paper plate, and the meal waiting for Oswald on the coffee table has been served just as humbly, but at least the ceramic mug is the real thing, and the toast itself unburnt.

Jim had glanced up at him as he entered, greeting him with a quick "Hey." before resuming filling his stomach. There's still a small trace of discomfort in the atmosphere, and Oswald knows it will take a while for the two of them to fall into a natural routine of interacting with each other, outside of the sex, especially on Jim's part. But there will be time, he hopes.

"Thank you for the toast, and the coffee. It's delicious."

Jim looks up from where he'd started to browse the front page of a paper laying across his lap, eyebrows raising slightly. "You're welcome. You don't have to lie, I know the coffee tastes like shit." A quick smile flits across his face, and Oswald laughs. Outside, the day beams in through the glass, as beautiful a day as Gotham City ever sees. Today will be a good day.


End file.
